


The Prize

by piggybackride (mssileas)



Series: Hayseed and Farmer [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Disability, Farmer!AU, Fluff, Hayseed Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostheses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssileas/pseuds/piggybackride
Summary: Hayseed won, and Mako promised to make him a hand as a reward. Now he has to keep his promise.





	The Prize

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Maybe y'all remember when good bean Hayseed won the scarecrow competition? If not, I suggest you read that part first :) 
> 
> This is a continuation, because I love writing about Hayseed - enjoy!

Of course he’d carve the scarecrow a hand, Mako remembers himself promising a few weeks back, sighing in frustration when he tosses what feels like the millionth attempt of a proper prostheses for Hayseed into the fireplace. The flames greedily swallow the clunky piece of wood that barely even resembles a hand - the crackling and popping as they devour it in a matter of minutes seems to be mocking him. 

Mako has no idea why he thought this would be easy. There’s almost no body part quite as complex as a hand, and Hayseed needs half an arm, too. That means Mako should build a joint where the wrist would be, but then he thinks about how senseless that would be. Hayseed wouldn’t be able to use it, it’s why he has no ankle on the peg leg, either. Through a smudged window, Mako looks for Hayseed. 

The scarecrow is on its post, in the middle of the field, probably enjoying the chilling breeze that is getting stronger by the minute - Mako suspects they’ll have a storm on them by eveningfall. He’s not worried about Hayseed. As soon as the first drops of rain hit the ground, the scarecrow will abandon its station to seek cover inside the farmhouse, to wait out the storm firmly nestled in the farmer’s lap. Hayseed hates rain. And thunder. And lightning. 

Sometimes Mako wants to ask how the scarecrow handled it on his own, before Mako bought this land, and the cursed thing right with it, it seems. But he’s under the strong impression that having had to suffer through so many frightening, stormy nights alone is the very reason why Hayseed despises them so much. He sighs, and reaches for a new log of wood. 

-

By the time the storm hits, it’s already dark - Mako has pulled his big, cushioned chair in front of the fire, and Hayseed fits very comfortably on his thigh, wriggling his long, lanky body between the curve of Mako’s chest and arm. He’s so light he could be a housecat. Rain thrums relentlessly against the rattling windows, and the wind howls and whistles throughs cracks and hollows in the old house. At least Hayseed has stopped flinching whenever thunder strikes.

Mako’s new work at least resembles a hand. He still stares at the thing for a silent minute, feeling Hayseed’s gaze shift between his own face and the wooden hand. “That doesn’t look very useful,” Hayseed says, very diplomatically. It makes Mako snort in amusement, and Hayseed replies with a giggle. 

He’s right… Mako has shaped it straightened out, with five individually spread fingers - which would only serve a purpose if he and Hayseed high-fived a lot. He has no idea what made him think that'd be the right shape for the prostheses. “Well you could swat flies with it, I suppose,” Mako says, slapping the stiff hand against the armchair to mimic the motion. Hayseed’s whole body trembles when he laughs. 

Finally, the farmer sighs. “Let’s forget the hand for a while - I still need to figure out how to attach it. Give me your arm.” Hayseed lifts his whole arm, and Mako pointedly lifts an eyebrow at him. “The other one.”

Mako can’t see it, but he swears the scarecrow frowns when it shakes its rustling head. The stump of his arm, sewn into the sleeve of his plaid shirt, nudges into Mako’s back when Hayseed attempts to shove it further between his heavy body and the cushions, as if he could hide it. 

“Come on, it’s not going to hurt, promise.”

“Yes it will,” Hayseed insists with a quaky voice, and Mako gently rubs his back, padded out by straw and wool. He doesn’t know what Hayseed is hiding underneath his clothes and the burlap hiding his face. All Mako ever sees is a pale hand and an equally pale foot. Everything else is safely tucked away into his suit. Hayseed never makes an effort to bare more of himself than he absolutely has to, and Mako never asks him to. He’s not even sure he wants to know exactly. 

What he can see looks human enough - but there is nothing human about his companion, who doesn’t eat or drink or even sleep as Mako does. Whatever the scarecrow is, it seems terribly afraid of pain - it took weeks until Hayseed stopped flinching from every quick move, torn between his endless yearning for _someone_ to talk to after how knows how long he’s been on this farm on his own, and always seeming so afraid of Mako, too. 

Mako remembers Hayseed shivering like leaves in the autumn wind when he had finally allowed the farmer to replace his peg leg - just the peg, the attachment was very much intact, and disappeared in washed out, grey pants. But that was a long time ago, and Hayseed has since shed most of his inhibitions, revealing a rather cheerful, clingy personality underneath. So the sudden reluctance strikes the farmer as odd. 

“You wanted me to build you a hand,” he says, nudging the scarecrow in his lap. “How did you think we were gonna attach it?”

Hayseed shrugs. “Over the sleeve?” he suggests, and Mako sighs. 

“That’s not a good idea. The cloth will have folds and they’ll dig into your skin.” And that would hurt for sure. “Come, show me your arm.”

Hayseed doesn’t move for a whole minute or two. That’s fine with Mako, he’s a patient man, he can wait out whatever the scarecrow needs to debate with itself. Hayseed moves very timidly at last, pulling out the stump of his right arm from behind Mako, sitting up so he can show it better. His whole posture is slump and limp, reflecting his apprehension. 

Mako reaches over to a small table, rummaging in a basket until he pulls forth a small pair of scissors and a tape measure. Hayseed winces at the sight of them. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Mako rumbles. The deep timbre of his voice rarely fails to calm the scarecrow, but this time it remains tense. “I’m just going to open the sleeve and look, okay? Nothing about this is going to hurt.” 

Hayseed relaxes only the tiniest bit, when Mako just snips at the seam of his sleeve, his breath a soft, nervous whistle. When the farmer finally rolls up the cloth and begins to pluck away golden straw, his breathing stops altogether. 

The arm ends in a jagged, cruel scar, as if someone had literally just pulled flabs of remaining skin together to sew them up as they’d fit. It absurdly reminds Mako of a mended sockhole, and he feels a sick twist in his gut. The rest of Hayseed’s skin, as far as he can see, is pale and raw, like the barely healed spots right under a scab. Now Mako understands why Hayseed is so intent on hiding his torn, vulnerable body. He can barely imagine what the rest of it must look like. 

“It’s very ugly, isn’t it?” Hayseed whispers, and he sounds so sad when he looks at the stump peeking through straw, there’s barely anything left that resembles the chatty creature that clings to Mako during his morning rounds through the stable anymore. 

The farmer gives him a solemn shrug. “It’s just badly healed, but there’s nothing ugly about you, Hayseed.” The lenses whirr doubtfully, when the scarecrow looks at him. “Ugly are the people who make you feel bad about it.” He doesn’t know who that could be - but someone or something must have brought Hayseed into whatever kind of life he’s been granted. There’s flesh and bones underneath all the straw, severed and and crudely stitched together if the scarred stump is anything to go by. Mako just doesn’t understand why Hayseed’s maker would call their own work _ugly_ , but then again, he never likes to ponder the circumstances of Hayseed’s creation for too long. 

Carefully, Mako holds out one broad hand - he doesn’t touch the sensitive looking skin, he’s just offering it to the scarecrow, until it hesitantly places the stump in Mako’s palm. He can see that Hayseed fully expects it to hurt, he’s flinching when their skin comes into contact, but instead of pained noise, Mako hears a deep exhale, and then Hayseed lets the weight of his arm drop into the farmer’s hand. It’s warm and rough with callouses, but Hayseed has seen it pull a truck tire as well as cradling a baby chick, he’s not afraid of Mako’s touch as long as it doesn’t burn on his skin as he anticipated. It’s more of a numb tingle, and even a bit nice when Mako’s thumb traces the uneven ridges where his arm was torn off, the remains of it sewn up hurriedly. 

The farmer wraps the tape measure around the stump this way and that way, mumbling out numbers Hayseed will have forgotten by morning. Mako pulls the sleeve back over pale skin and Hayseed can breathe a bit easier - though that tingling feeling seems to trail through his whole body, and he quickly slides back into the comfortable crease under Mako’s arm. “I’ll make you the prettiest hand I can,” the farmer promises, tossing the fly swatter prostheses into the fireplace as well. Above them, thunder rumbles so loud it drowns out the crackling of the flames. 

“You might need some more practice,” Hayseed mumbles into the crook of Mako’s neck, and the farmer huffs. That’s a blatant understatement. 

-

It takes Mako almost six months and seventy-three attempts until Hayseed’s prostheses is finally perfect. Finding the right kind of wood was the most tedious part about it. It had to be hard, but not too heavy, very durable, soft enough to carve out details but not so brittle it would splinter - his own hands are so blistered and full of tiny cuts at the end, Mako feels like he needs a pair of artificial ones too. 

Hayseed’s reaction makes it all up to him, though. 

Mako waits for him on the porch, watching the sun set slowly behind the trees in the orchard - the scarecrow will climb off its post on its own, to spend the night safely inside, but Hayseed likes to soak up the sun as long as he can. When he finally comes running across the fields in his dancing, swaying steps, Mako smiles. The hand lies across his lap - it’s a beautiful piece made of lacquered Blackwood. Despite the name, Blackwood has an intricate grain of swirling browns and deep red hues that almost seem to be moving under the polished surface. Mako has to admit he's quite proud of that effect. 

Hayseed stops dead in his tracks right before the steps leading up to the porch when he sees it, and gasps. He knew Mako was working hard on his hand, forbidding Hayseed from snooping around and judging his progress, but the finished piece is more stunning than he could have imagined it. The last rays of sunshine dancing across it make the texture look almost alive, accentuating the gentle curve of four fingers that form a scoop, and a separate thumb, and Hayseed desperately wants to find out if it feels as smooth as it looks. 

“It’s so beautiful…,” Hayseed whispers, awe-struck, finally remembering how to move so he can climb the steps. He moves so timidly as if afraid that it could just be a joke, but Mako’s broad face looks soft and kind when he bids him to sit. Hayseed’s whole body shivers with excitement when he flops down into a chair. “Is it really for me?”

Mako frowns. “I wasn’t gonna scratch my back with it,” he says, then coughs out one of his raspy laughs. “Though come to think of it… - no, this is yours, Hayseed. You wanna see if it fits?”

Hayseed nods and nods, until he remembers that he has to pull up the sleeve for that. He still doesn’t like how even the soft breeze is too much sensation on his skin - but then Mako’s hand gently grasps his arm and it’s a bit easier to endure. The hollowed out end of the prosthetic arm is padded by the softest lamb wool, and Mako makes quick work of attaching the leather straps around Hayseed’s elbow. It fits snugly and comfortably, and though the weight is foreign to the scarecrow, it’s _good_ weight, it’s supposed to be there. One moment, Hayseed is breathing quiet as always, and the next he’s sobbing inconsolably, feeling something click into place he doesn’t even remember missing, it’s been so long. He’s crying and crying and crying, folding into himself while clutching the beautiful wooden hand with the other, tracing his fingertips over the details, creases between fingers and knuckles and nails and tiny folds, as if it was skin. 

Hayseed barely notices when the farmer picks him up, carrying the light creature inside. When he calms down, they’re snuggled up in Mako’s bed, and the soothing voice washes over him like water. 

“I guess you like it then?” the farmer asks when Hayseed stops sniffling, adjusting the sleeve so it covers the spot where the prostheses attaches. 

“It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever gotten,” the scarecrow croaks quietly, pressing his face into the vibrating, content hum rumbling through the man’s barrel chest. 

-

Hayseed loves his new hand. Mako thought it would be only a cosmetic attachment, but as it turns out, Hayseed finds lots of uses for it, despite the lack of feeling. 

He can hook a basket into the slight crook to help pick fruits and vegetables, he uses it help feed the chickens, and to give the happily grunting pigs a good back rub - but most importantly, when he joins Mako on the porch each night to watch the sunset, it fits into the farmer’s hand just as nicely as his flesh hand, as if it had been shaped to do exactly that. And that makes Hayseed happier than everything else.

**Author's Note:**

> *sniff*  
> Thank you for reading, will now go build my own scarecrow to snuggle
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments or hang out on my [tumblr](https://piggyofoz.tumblr.com/)! (NSFW tumblr version [here](https://piggyofoz-nsfw.tumblr.com/).)


End file.
